Note: I'll split the archive into sections when it becomes needed, but there are few enough entries right now that I've just included them all here. --Ed.
2.3.01
Everything old is new again; I just got back from seeing Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. I'm not exaggerating in the least to say that I was slackjawed through the whole thing. It's the first movie since The Matrix that used harness tricks as a cinematic element rather than a gimmick. It was all the more strong in that it wasn't a Matrix clone, but rather a nod to animé, almost thumbing its nose at it, since it took the supposed strengths of animation (surrealistic settings, intricate high-speed combat sequences, etc.) and made a better movie than anything that's come out of Japan in eight years. It used every animé plot element in the book, from I Must Avenge The Death of My Master At The Hands of a Mysterious Enemy to We Are In Love So We Must Never Touch, and still managed to come out kicking a metric assload of, well, ass.

Most importantly, most incredibly, I damn near believe in movies again.
3.15.00
1-29-01--It's raining.

A side note here to comment in dismissively pretentious fashion how just plain beautiful Things In Herds's music is when it wants to be. The direction I wish Ocean Colour Scene had gone before they decided they were the Beatles instead. To songs like "Sad Song I" and "Like Me" I can only reply with a low, half-lidded 'wow'.

It's a low key evening, drizzling warm for January, the kind of night that makes you glad to be alone wishing you weren't. It's the kind of vibe that just makes you want to quote song lyrics endlessly, trying to catch the duende in between glasses of Pope's-chianti:

...it's too late for me, let an old man rest.
One more black & tan on the barricade
To keep me safe from loving...
--Richard Thompson

I just got out of a poetry workshop (Motto: We'll Hammer Your Crap Into A Cheap Imitation Of Our Crap Or Your Money Back) and am wondering why I don't carry firearms on my person. But my low-grade frustration at Dr. Jackson's relentless patronization and sneering dismissals are fading into my wine glass. (Today's moral: Mmm. Alcoholism.) The plot thickened further with the discovery that one était suddenly decided I wasn't worth speaking to, while another just as suddenly decided I was. I make nothing of it.

Your restlessness is emptier
Than the room we used to live in...
Here's wishing you the best,
The rest is always better left unsaid...
--Ida

As usual, I have no reason to write this down.
3.12.00
12-31-00--As a music nazi I took umbrance at all the trendy little year-end Top Ten lists by the trendy little indie rags I've been perusing while waiting in line for my skinny-double-half-cup-latte-with-extra-foam at the local attitude brokerage (read: coffeehouse). I was irritated with the obsession they seem to have with "The Best Albums You Didn't Hear", which should obviously be appended with "...But We Did, Thus Reaffirming Our Status As Renegade Folk Heroes And Not Unwashed Losers With A Pretentious Need For Exclusivity". Everything they picked said the same damn thing: "a rare and unique [emphasis mine] blend of rock, jazz, country, indie, hip-hop, rap, metal, punk, blues, shoegazer, zydeco, polka, and inustrial." Christ. Right kids, we never see that. Especially not over and over again. I think the kids are calling it pop music.

So naturally of course I though I'd remedy this with an equally pretentious and absurd list of the best albums that you really didn't hear, i.e., I didn't see any reviews of these albums anywhere (I don't count the Internet), nor did they place in any of the year-end lists. They are presented in no particular order. Btw, I'd scan in the album covers, but I can't be bothered. Sorry.

Pomegranate, Larry Lane--Snarling guitar diatribes like 'Twilight' and barely-contained acoustic meditations like 'Necessary Evil' and 'The Sight of You' kick you in the head, strew it with metaphors, shake it around a little, and leave one beautiful exit wound.

Things in Herds, The Three Doors--Nick Drake as an indie kid. Pete knows how to strip a song to its essentials. Some of the saddest, quirkiest music you'll ever hear.

Ida, Will You Find Me--simple, honest songwriting by a quartet who knows whereof it speaks. Excellent production. Good for a night alone with your significant other. Don't miss 'Shrug'.

Covenant of Thorns, Hallowed and Hollow--a goofy-looking kid from Seattle makes 80's style, cheesy goth-pop that somehow you simply can't resist. Fills the gaping hole in your life left by David Gahan's detox vacation.

Mark Kozelek, Rock and Roll Singer--the first criticism that's going to be leveled at Kozelek is that this disc doesn't sound like Red House Painters. Um, see the little title printed on the CD, the one that says "Red House Painters"? No? Me neither. So shut up. [Note--Actually, Rolling Stone did review this album, a month before it was released. They called it "insipid". Then again, they gave Britney Spears' new album four stars. Which fucking goes to show you what journalists know. --Ed]
3.11.00
12-21-00--Went to a VAST concert the other night in Nashville. Rather enjoyable despite the small crowd. Even the weaker songs from the new album sounded great. The audience was actually pretty respectful and not, as Nashville crowds usually are, a bunch of drunken sots tripping over each other and calling out for the artist to "do that one song you do". For that reason alone it was one of the better shows I've attended, well worth my $11. Now let us never speak of it again.

Wait, am I supposed to bust out now with some rant on Christmas and commercialism and how the meaning's been lost and so forth? That's like complaining about the government. People are going to do what they're going to do, and that's scrabble for meaningless shit in Wal-mart. I mean, it's not like they don't want to get into a fistfight with some poverty-line trailer sow over some 15%-off bedsheets. If they didn't, they wouldn't do it. Tell me I'm wrong.

I think Christmas is some kind of purging ritual for the bourgeois. You work up all this hate for the season, you meditate while stuck in mall traffic about how much you hate your Uncle Lester and if he wasn't so goddammed fickle you wouldn't be stuck in the middle of an SUV pile jockeying for parking position this close to Christmas looking for "that perfect something", of how your mother never really loved you so thank god the crystal vase you bought her was fake, about how if your father makes one more comment about how fat your girlfriend/wife/sister/dog is getting you're going to punch him so hard he'll be smiling out of his ass 'til Easter. You get all this squeezed into a little ball, you explode it during the annual Family Christmas Dinner Mélee, and you're good to go for the new year. Like group therapy, only more expensive.

I'm holing up in my apartment with the mistletoe firmly in place over me and a bottle of chianti. See you all in the new year. That is, if I don't see my shadow.
3.09.00
11-30-00--I'd just like to take this opportunity to talk about how much the Gap sucks my motherfucking ass.

There is a special place in Hell waiting for the marketing genius who decided to use a Red House Painters song for their fucking scarf commercial. Yes, I know it was their one radio single, and it was already on the soundtrack for a god-awful Alicia Silverstone movie, but that's not the point.

First a personal note: When I was younger and far too idealistic about the Revolution I ranted and raved like any pretentious git about the evils of conformity and corporate chains selling image for easy down payments. I irritated the hell out of my friends with my trendy bitching. In my old age I've learned not to care so much about what the little people are doing, and I admit that, stigma or no, clothes are just clothes.

But now I have a valid point I think, which is thus: I'm actually getting scared to like anything anymore. I know how that sounds, but consider: Red House Painters is my favorite band, second in longevity only to Dinosaur Jr.; but now I have to hear them EVERY HOUR if I plan to watch TV this month, since the Gap sponsors damn near everything. So I either do without my Buffy the Vampire Slayer or I get sick of my favorite band.

Yes, yes, I know the crux of this argument rests on the idea of "alternative" music and a pretentious desire for exclusivity. But there's a reason you're sick of hearing about the demise of the "alternative scene", and that's because corporations like the Gap have made you sick of it. Now there really is no line between "fringe" music and "mainstream" music; it's only a difference of marketing budgets. Which goes back to my fear of starting to like something--to exaggerate only a little bit, it's as if I can't step out of a record store with a new CD under my arm without getting jumped in the alley by some pinhead twenty-something marketing exec demanding to know if I'll buy a $120 sweater if they sample whatever band I'm listening to. [Note: actually, that's true. Marketing companies actually do this. I still have bruises. --Ed.]

Sure, I'd like everyone to agree that Red House Painters is a fantastic band. I'd even like someone to see that Gap commercial and say "hey, that's a great song. What band is that?", and discover some good music as a result. But not if it costs me my personal pleasure in the band. Is that selfish? Oh well.

That reminds me--I need to buy a scarf.
3.08.00
11-20-00--I have been toying lately with the idea of taking down the Playground. I've been running this site for over three years with no real purpose except giving my gall bladder some ventilation. But lately I just don't feel the need. It doesn't bother me that absolutely no one reads this page; rather, I'm running out of the original acidity that drove me to author it, and the pretentiousness that made me think it was important. I don't know yet....we'll see.


It's been almost a month since I went to see J. Mascis at the CD release party for his latest album "More Light" at the 40watt Club in Athens, GA. I was waiting to put up an article about it because Jeremiah had promised me photos from the show. He then offered me a bridge in Florida.

Anyway, my girlfriend (poor sot) and I traipsed down to see me favorite guitar yokel ("Chops? I don't have any chops. Who do you think I am, Yngwie?" -J.) lay down a little Jazzmaster law, and Jesus Tapdancing Christ, people, if that wasn't the best...well, anything I've ever seen. The boy's still got no stage presence whatsoever, but who needs it when you're God? (The good ones never brag, and all that) I didn't expect him to do any Dino songs since he had a new band now, but two songs into the set Mascis hits the opening riff from "Out There" and I had to wipe some fluids off the guy in front of me. Heh, heh....hmm.

Of course the new material dominated the set, and I didn't mind one bit since it's the best stuff he's put out in a while. I appreciated the warmer tones of "Without A Sound" and the experimentalism of "Hand It Over", but it was nice to see a return to form in the new stuff, i.e. tight riffs and a fuller, (God forgive me) effulgent sound. I will say that although J. always perfectionistically (z'at a word?) fusses over the studio production, his music will always sound best in a live power trio. Getting drenched in dizzying feedback's half the fun, kids!

Oh yeah, like a true fan-boy jerk-off that I am--J. gave me a drink from his water bottle.
11.01.00
It's mailbag time!

  • Why is this site such a mess? I thought you were updating it.
     I am. I never said I was finished. I probably will never be, considering my perfectionism [insert hideous laughter].

  • What about your other site?
     What about it?

  • Well, it's not acidic much at all. It's almost...I don't know, cute or something.
     So's your mother. My other site isn't as acidic as this one because it isn't this one. It's a completely seperate entity. Unlike some people I actually have more than one emotion. I draw a comic strip because I think it's fun. Fuck off already.

  • I've noticed your writing style's a bit erratic. Some days it's better than others.
    Depends on how much I've had to drink. Tonight's a pretty good example.

    Enough. I'm bored already.
    		•
    10.30.00
    It's midnight. Drinking some red wine, listening to Leonard Cohen's "New Skin for the Old Ceremony", trying to figure out why the hell I thought updating tonight would be a good idea. Random shit it is, then.

    I ran across this chick's website and was impressed enough to say so. She's got a brevity of style I wish I had. And I like websites that are so cynical that they make me embarassed to send them email, like it'd be an offense, like it'd do their cool harm:

    ME: Um. I like your site. It's neat and stuff.

    THEM: Fuck you.

    Some people asked me recently why I haven't asked Stile to link me or something yet. I haven't done so because I have no reason to think he (or the peers which were also suggested) would like this site. There's no porn. I don't waste my breath supporting kiddie sex or shooting random minorities because I don't care enough about you to try shocking you. This site is just another soapbox, not a media clusterfuck. That and I would lose my hosting, such as it is.

    I was going to write about the concert I went to last week, but I need pictures for it. I was too indie rock (read: goddamned stupid) to bring my camera. Jeremiah was supposed to send me some pictures from the show but he doesn't even have them up on his site yet. Damn fine site he's got, though. (That's the wine talking.)

    I really need to edit some of this babble sometime.
    10.14.00
    Know this, my filthy children--I've started a new project. Check the warm goodness at your leisure:



    ...and for God's sake wipe your feet. Fret not, I'm not leaving the Playground behind. However, I am going on a mini-hiatus while I make some new graphics and buttons, and hunt someone down to teach me how to use a bloody stylesheet. You'll know when I'm back because the page will have undergone a facelift. Keep the faith while I'm gone, kids.
    9.20.00
    Threw up a links page. I don't know why.

    I almost freaked out the other night. My Napster connection spontaneously went down in the middle of downloading J. Mascis' new solo effort, and nothing short of chanting fell passages from the Necrowombicon could revive it....I was almost afraid this was the big one, and my pirat-uh, file-sharing days were soon to be at an end. Fortunately, wetting my pants in fear was a little premature, but I chose to consider it a drill for The Real Thing. Thus I change my jeans and move on.
    Bitching about Napster's potential closing seems to be quite the topic to discuss nowadays. Well, we at the Playground *love* bandwago-er, staying current, so our two cents it is. Napster Is Good(TM). CD sales are up. People are getting exposure to bands they'd otherwise have no access to. Indie bands and bands who major labels refuse to support now have a literally worldwide audience. Even the goddamn artists themselves support Napster! So why the hell are we still talking about this? Because the recording industry (read: shmindustry) is like the little kid in the back of class who bitches every time you pass a note, but he's the mayor's kid so noone will stand up to him.
    You know, kids, the recording industry's like Richard Simmons. If you ignore it long enough, it'll go away. Don't like the way Virgin-Atlantic does business? Don't buy their records. If you're a band, don't sign with them. It really is that simple. The industry doesn't want you to know it, but it really is a buyer's market, people. If you keep your dollar in your pocket, the industry can't have it. If you don't water a plant it dies. How plain can I make this?
    Oh but hell, why would you listen to me? You've heard this a million times before but you still rush like sheep and stampede the homeless in order to stand in line for U2's new album. Fuck you all.
    7.25.00
    We've added a seperate section in the 'poetry' aisle for reader submissions. Brace yourself. Or something.

    While I'm on this service industry tack--a personal pet peeve of mine. Namely these numbnuts who won't take a fucking clue that the only reason the counter girl is talking to you is because she can't leave. No other reason. If you want a blowjob, just get it at your mom's house like the rest of us do.
    7.14.00
    More poetry added, though you'll have to dig for some of it. More of the 'Manifesto' up.

    (sigh.) The service industry. You hate it. You try like hell to avoid working in it. You would rather masturbate with a fork than work in fast food. Ever since you were 16 and spent two weeks at McDonald's before being forced to quit for refusing to clean up some invalid's vomit off the ketchup dispenser, you have known that food service equals death. Cleaning goat crap off of the fences in a petting zoo sounds better to you than spending 8 hours a day in a polyester uniform enduring the malicious breath of every half-evolved biped with a hankering for America's Favorite Fries (tm).
    But here's what I don't get. Now you're bitching about the service. You walk into a fast-food joint and complain with a straight face to the manager because you waited five whole minutes for your order and because the hassled-looking drive-through girl didn't smile. You wave your arms and say you'll never come in again, never bothering to notice the manager's eyes rolling the whole time.
    Listen up, asshole. I'm the guy standing behind your ass in line who wishes you'd shut the hell up so I can order my McHeartAttack. This is fast-food. By definition, this industry was created to give you a place to walk in, order a sandwich, get it, and go the hell home. Since America is full of fat, lazy, cheap people bred to consume by Sesame Street and South Park, this is of course a huge business. A high- volume, high-energy, high-stress environment made so you can save the three minutes it'd take you to boil water and cook a meal. There are people who have to work this job, and your energy would be better spent at home praying thanks to your gods that you aren't one of them.
    Don't get me wrong. Anyone who purchases a product or a service has a right to a)get what they paid for, and b)not have to take shit for having ordered it. When I walk into a burger joint I expect to come in, order, get my order, and hoof it. And I expect prompt service with a modicum of courtesy. But that's it. All I'm asking is to get what I gave money for and to not have it thrown at me. I don't expect or even particularly desire pleasantness, conversation, smiles (even though they're "free" at McDonald's), or mild flirting, which is what the rest of you assholes seem to get pissed about if you don't receive. It should occur to you once in a while that this job isn't a pleasant one but someone has to do it, and as long as they do it efficiently, that should be fine by you.

    Sorry your McDonald's experience wasn't a pleasant one. Now please get the hell out of line.
    7.10.00
    A few more links up. Wahoo.

    Mmmm. Posturing. It's almost not worth writing about, but don't you find yourself sometimes taking it as a personal insult when someone guns his car near you, or hollers something incoherent out a window as they pass by, or anything else demonstrating this pseudo-machismo "WAAAHOOO LOOK AT ME" mentality? Don't you wish sometimes that you could chase them down, drag them out of their crappy '86 Camaro with cherry bombs and a mismatched paint job and scream into their acne-studded faces, "what the FUCK DO YOU WANT?!?" Or just kill them. They didn't even do anything to you, not really; but you just have this uncontrollable urge to 'confront' them in some manner, to really see if any of this behavior which is somehow supposed to lend an appearance of confidence, of being able to 'strike out' at the world and change it (even infintessimily) without being harmed, has any substance in character when you assert (preferably with a gun) that yes, dear, the world does bite back, and you'd do best to stay the fuck as far away from it as possible if you want to ever finish growing that patchwork beard desperately ekeing its way onto your face.
    But then of course that urge means you are posturing, too.
    6.16.00
    A throwaway article on the nature of love, plus we've added two new features: an ongoing short-rant journal and an experimental piece of evolving fiction. Basically we just wanted an excuse to lure you back on a regular basis. Why? Because we love you.

    Rode the bus today. Talk about Darwin's Waiting Room. Or a chariot ride to Hell, depending on which way your metaphysics swing. I am a proud (heh) user of public transportation now, thanks to losing my car and my liscence in the same month (I'll be posting that rant seperately, shortly). I don't mind the concept at all--after all, the buses are air-conditioned in this 95+-degree weather, they're generally on time, and they go everywhere I usually need to. Plus it's only a dollar, which financially speaking ultimately whips the proverbial ass off of fueling a car nowadays. So sure, I'll play the Utopian liberal; at least it'll give me ammo with which to continue scoffing at SUV's. Not that it would stop me otherwise.
    But the passengers. Sweet merciful Christ. I haven't seen this many invalids, zombies, and humming paranoiacs since my university's last Singarama (you'll have to take my word for it, folks). Sandwiched as I was between this 300lb Faulknerian idiot with Minnie-Mouse ears and suspenders, and the diligent short-busser on his way to his cross-town job at Hardee's (or on his way back--he smelled like someone urinated in a grease-trap) constantly chatting up the profoundly uninterested driver, I had to wonder as I looked around me: why are these people riding the bus in the first place? I'm riding because I simply don't have a car. I'm not out to peddle drugs or drool on people or hoping to find a busload (pun intended) of new friends to fascinate with my complete lack of social graces. I just don't have another means of transport except my feet (and I do walk a lot) . But it's like these people have been forced to ride the bus because they must be too stupid to own a car.
    Wait--that's not a bad thing, now that I say it out loud.
    >